


Unwinding the Second Hand

by annieke



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieke/pseuds/annieke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny's trying to put himself back on track after Grace's kidnapping by his former partner, but it doesn't come easy.<br/>Coda to episode 2.15, Mai Ka Wa Kahiko</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwinding the Second Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratherastory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/gifts).



> Warning: Scene of domestic violence between non-canon characters. Possible triggering.
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to Z for the much appreciated beta, and the reminder of the beauty of Hawaiian night skies.  
> Thanks, too, to S for the last minute calm and soothe.

What was that saying? Something about wrong turns not making a right? Which, what--made all wrong turns left turns? Which would just put you back to where you started, right? Do not pass ‘Go’. Do not collect two hundred dollars, not that two hundred bucks would stretch all too far on the island of ‘everything’s way too expensive for your paycheck’ anyway--

Still, thinks Danny, that’s all pretty much life as he now knows it: A whole hell of a lot of wrong turns.

"Well," she's telling him and he's trying—really, he is trying--to give a shit. "It's certainly your choice entirely as to whether you want to sit here and talk, or you want to sit here and not talk for the entire hour."

What Danny really wants is to punch something.

Punch the pillow. Punch the wall. Punch the clock for not moving faster. He stares at his appointed psychiatrist, frowning at the weird little half-smile she's giving him as she's saying all that in her perfectly agreeable tone.

Knows he won’t really hit anything because he's trying to control his anger. Really. Rein it all in as if it really shouldn't bother him one iota that his former training officer would show up, kidnap his daughter and threaten to kill her.

"Because, you know, Detective, I'm here regardless."

Regardless, he thinks, because he's here, too. As in: he has to be here. Required.

She's watching him. Relaxing. Crossing her legs. Slowly twirling the pen that's in her hand, writing something on the pad of paper from time to time. Still with that little smile. That little fucking smirky-ass smile.

Yeah, he thinks. He'd really like to wipe that smile from her face, knows exactly what to say that would do it, too--but wouldn't that just add fuel to the already out of control fire that is his current life.

He wishes she would just go away. Wishes all of this would just go away.

Stares at the clock on the wall and notes the passing of each second as it ticks by in the slowest of all possible motion.

Wishes he could just go away.

**

"Danny."

There's an urge building to just scream out, '"What!" but instead Danny turns with arms crossed and just gives Steve a look. He's feeling wound up enough after his visit with the psychiatrist and has enough of a headache that he doesn't want to add to it by snapping at his partner. Really, he doesn't--

Because Steve, Steve's been nothing but supportive. A warm smile and squeeze of a reassuring hand when needed. Solid as a rock and there by Danny's side both day and night. Night, as in all night. As in, they finally are making this thing--this whatever it's called when you work together and then go home and sleep together, for fuck's sake it's actually happening--thing work. Yeah, it's off to a great start.

Or was, until Peterson showed up to wreak havoc.

Steve's now staring at him, as if he, too, can clearly view the vision of Peterson that Danny's mind is conjuring. Danny's bullet right between the eyes. Dead as dead is. If only.

His eyes meet Steve's and he can clearly read the man's, 'I would absolutely maim someone for you if I could,' expression. Would do it, too.

Danny wishes it were that easy.

"If things were up to me you'd be with us, Danny."

"If things were up to you you'd own a grenade launcher," he replies then pauses, adding, "No. I know." And he does know. Knows this isn't what Steve wants. What any of them want.

"Denning--"

Yeah, there is that. The man in charge has the final word. He waves a hand in dismissal. Not like he or Steve have any say in this. He shot two men. One who didn't deserve it. One who most definitely did. It'll be Denning's decision whether Danny gets back to work. Back to his team.

"Standard protocol, Steve. This is what's supposed to happen after you--I--anyone shoots someone. Investigation. You'd know this if you ever bothered to listen to me. Pay attention. Take notes, even. Besides, it's only a couple weeks, right?"

Steve nods.

Danny nods in return. "Yeah--and, you know. At least I'm suspended with pay." He sweeps a hand around the stacks of several boxes lining his new apartment. "Look at it this way, gives me some time to get all this shit put away." Which really, just makes him feel a little depressed in that he's been in Hawaii two years now and all he has to show for it is this rather pathetic stack of cardboard boxes.

"It's not really a suspension, Danny. You do realize that. More like a--a break."

A long look, then there's that smile of Steve's: the pained one. The one that's born from multiple layers--deep layers. Danny hates that he's now become one of those layers.

"A break, yeah--like a paid vacation in paradise," he states with a laugh that's not so much humor-induced as resigned. There's nothing in his life he finds too funny right now but he'll give Steve an A for effort. "Whatever you want to call it, babe."

Not like he's kidding himself. They'll investigate, most likely clear him of all action due to duress like he'd told Peterson because, yeah, when someone threatens to kill your daughter and has you drive around with a gun pointed to your head, it's kind of assumed that at the end of the day, you may be feeling just a tad bit on edge.

Steve's just leaning there against the wall, a sort of hulking presence in all his tattooiness and looking like he just doesn't get it--like he's waiting for some sort of punch line to an unfinished joke that will then have Danny back to work.

Danny can't help but think that if Steve were a dog in this scenario, he'd be tilting his head from side to side in that totally fascinated but can't figure it out way. Danny knows the whole situation is just so black and white to Steve, and he wishes he had answers to offer. Or a punch line, anyway.

"Yeah, I know. I know," Steve says, rubbing his chin, frustration evident. "Just, we all know you shot Stan because you had no--"

"Okay. Stop. Right there." He's holding a hand up, surprised, really, that Steve does actually stop talking. "Enough I have to go over all of this with someone I don't even know who needs to 'evaluate' my psyche. Let's just let it go, okay? For now? Can you do that for me?" He sighs and pulls open one of his moving boxes. Trash. How the hell did that end up getting packed and moved?

Steve shoots him a wounded look that he ignores. He just doesn’t—can’t—talk about it anymore. It exhausts him.

Steve’s then looking around in an abrupt change of subject. "Can't believe you found this place. It's actually not half bad if you squint with one eye and, y' know, tilt your head a little. Maybe squint with both eyes--or close them, even--"

"Yeah, okay," he half agrees, scanning the small living area of his new apartment. "You go ahead and squint all you want, Steven. I'll just be over here, reveling in the fact there're no ghosts, no mold and no seriously whacked neighbors."

"That you know of."

"Oh my god, you did not just say that out loud," he admonishes because what the hell? Once it's said, they show up. In droves.

He'd stumbled on the vacancy sign during his first day of suspension while heading to a bar in a neighborhood he knew none of his teammates would frequent. Not that he's telling Steve that little morsel. Who knew wanting to drink himself to complete oblivion would lead to a decent place to live?

Goodbye crappy motel room. Hello not quite so crappy apartment.

Steve's phone buzzes. Danny doesn't miss the brief hesitation before he answers. Like Steve's not sure he should. "It's Chin," Steve says. "I gotta--"

"Go," Danny finishes for him, waving him away. "I'll be okay. I am okay, Steve, really. Go. I got all these boxes to keep me busy."

He opens another and lying on the top is Grace's artwork from the front of the refrigerator. The one she drew of her family. The one with Grace standing in the middle, Rachel, Stan and the baby on one side of her, him and Steve, Chin and Kono on the other.

Blue sky, white puffy clouds and a bright sun shine down on all of them, and everyone has big, open crescent smiles drawn in red on their faces.

So happy.

"Hang on," he hears Steve say to Chin, then there's warmth on his arm, Steve's hand is wrapping his bicep, pulling him in as he bends down to kiss him, squeezing his neck. "You okay?" Steve mouths, pausing like he's still not sure leaving is the right thing to do, and Danny feels the spread of something warm deep inside his chest.

Danny gives him a thumbs-up, watches as Steve sends him one last lingering look before walking out the door, phone back to his ear. He then stands there surveying his life in boxes and listening to Steve’s voice fade away down the hall. Tries to tamp down the thrum of mixed emotions that now seem to maintain a constant simmer just below his skin.

"I'm okay," he breathes out to his empty room. "I'm okay.

**

He spends what has to be at least ten minutes wondering if the long silence is weighing as heavily on her as it is on him.

Probably not so much.

"Have you considered that being here may actually be of help to you, Detective Williams?"

He shoots her what he hopes is a decent enough rendition of Kono's, 'you're an even bigger idiot than I thought' expression. "Help? Okay. No. See, I, uh, don't really need help with anything. Everything's pretty fine. I’m good. I'm fine."

She shifts in her seat. "Uh-huh. So you've said. But, since you are required to be here, why not take advantage of your time with me instead of passing another hour with me staring at you and you staring at the clock?" She's looking right at him. He finds the lint on his pants more interesting.

"Well, there's nothing much for me to say. You're right: I have to be here. You have to be here. We're both getting paid for it, but, see, I don’t--"

He’s surprised when she interrupts him. "Yes, true. I mean, I could just get my paperwork done, but that wouldn't be very professional of me to do so on your time, so--"

"So I guess we'll both just sit here then."

She's looking at him with what seems to be her own version of the 'you're an idiot' expression. It kind of makes him glad to see it. He was getting very tired of that vague half-smile.

"You do realize, and this is not a threat by any measure, Detective, but you do realize that, ultimately, it is my recommendation that is a part of the deciding factor on whether or not you're to return to duty? A large part, I might add."

Now he's shifting. "Really, that's not a threat? 'Cause, you know, kinda sounds like a threat to me."

"No, not at all. But given the circumstances, that I'm here and you're required to be, perhaps we could try a little discussion. See where that leaves us at the end of the day."

"Discussion."

"Yes. You know--you speak. I speak. Ergo, discussion."

He laughs. "Did you just say ergo?"

She doesn't get it, but she's smiling a little more naturally. "I did--it means--"

"Okay. Yeah, trust me. I know what it means."

**

Danny hasn't had time to get the cable hooked up in his new place yet, and the reception on the few channels he can get without it stinks, so he shuts off the TV and heads to the small balcony that sits off his bedroom to look out at the night.

There's one sure thing about Hawaii that he does like: the stars. So many more visible than he's ever been able to see back in New Jersey, even given the bright nightglow of Honolulu.

The view from the small patch of beach at Steve's house is his favorite gazing arena thus far; over the black of the ocean, tiny stars fan out like glitter across the deep of the night sky. He could look up at them for hours, especially when he's sitting within the vee of Steve's legs, leaning back against him with their hands all over each other and--

Yeah. Not tonight, though. Steve's got dinners and meetings all week with the governor and other political yahoos, and Danny knows he needs to learn to work on trying to relax. Employ some of those exercises his doctor recommended to ease the tightening in his shoulders. Ease the tension that builds when just thinking of what that fucking former partner of his did and--

Ah, screw it.

He shuts off the room's overhead light and gazes again out into the night sky. Not that he can see all that much. The houses and apartments on the block emanate too much light pollution to get a decent view.

The neighbor's small house next to him offers him a direct line into their life given all the lights are on and the window blinds open. If he wanted, he could spy on everything going on in their living room and bedroom, but he's never been one for being that nosy. He doesn't care what other people are up to--privacy should be just that: private.

Other than some movement in that small house, not much else is going on out there on a Tuesday evening.

He watches the night for a while, his mind a fairly blank slate as he’s trying very hard not to think on anything, until he turns to go inside and catches the almost transparent image of his own reflection in the sliding glass door. Like he's there, but not there.

God, he misses Grace.

The book on his nightstand promises escape, and he moves to the bed, turning on the small lamp and opening the novel to chapter one.

Might as well lose himself in someone else's life for a while. Lord knows he's already lost in his own.

**

The doc's giving him a steady gaze, and some stupid old joke about mind-shrinking psychiatrists wanders into his head and makes him almost laugh out loud. He doubts she would find it remotely humorous. She doesn't seem the type.

"No, we don't have to talk about any of it today if you’d rather not, Detective. Let's start smaller. Tell me about your mom and dad."

Jesus. "Really? Is this where I'm supposed to blame my parents for the shit that is my life? Isn't that just a little cliché?"

"No, of course not." A pause, then: "Why do you refer to your life as shit?"

He laughs. "Uh, yeah--have you read my file? Better yet, have you watched the news lately?" Because his was the lead story for a few days as the press covered Peterson's arrest, the arraignment--the weirdness of his former partner stalking them. The media does love a psychopath. They called his cell phone. Called Rachel's house. Camped out on the lawn there to get a shot of Grace, for god's sake.

"I know all about what happened, Detective Williams, of course--"

"Okay, you know what? Just--call me Danny. Please. I mean, after all, this is kind of, what, like our third or fourth date now?" He smiles, half feeling it. "We're almost an item."

Waves a hand at her because really, he knows she's just doing her job. He is her job. "Nah, my parents. They're pretty good--they're the best, actually. My whole family's great. Well, I got a brother-in-law who's kind of a nutcase right now, but only because he's married to my sister who's even more of a nutcase because they have four kids under the age of seven which, trust me, if you have kids you know."

He's not about to bring up his brother, Matt. That's a chapter best left unread for now.

He looks at her, studying her a bit. Weighing his options. He knows she's just trying to ease him into a comfortable dialog, trying to get him to talk about how he feels.

Just, he really doesn't want to talk about any of what happened too directly. It's too clear in his mind, too fresh, and he's exhausted just thinking about it all the time.

He can see himself finding Grace--sometimes sees himself finding her too late, even though he knows that's not how it happened. He’s been dreaming about it just that way, though, even though he knows that Grace really is okay.

Now, this head doc wants him to open up, but he doesn't know if he can.

Doesn't want to--but hell, he can offer her a little something rather than sit here another laborious hour. He knows how to deflect and make it look like a kill shot if he has to--aim for the shoulder instead. Just like when he shot--

Fuck.

"Okay, fine. If you really want to hear about the crazy that is my life, let's talk about my marriage and divorce with Rachel. Better yet, let's get right to the current crazy. Let me tell you about Steve."

**

He stops on his way home after his session with the psychiatrist and picks up a half case of beer along with a package of hotdogs and some buns. All he needs now is a box of orange mac-n-cheese and it'd be a night right out of his college days.

Nukes two hotdogs when he gets home and drowns them in mustard, following them with three beers downed in fairly quick succession before cutting himself off before he actually makes himself sick.

He's not drunk, but he's definitely feeling a lot more relaxed. That ache between his shoulder blades has definitely eased. Maybe he ought to pound down a few right before his next therapy session. See if sitting there half-lit makes it easier to discuss the 'incident', as his appointed psychiatrist refers to it.

The incident.

The kidnapping of his daughter, is what it is. His baby. His reason for living. Just talking about it with the doctor makes him relive it, relive the churning in his gut. The fear, the anxiety. The rage.

Fuck Peterson. Goddamnit. Fuck him for doing what he did. He should have shot him dead. That's exactly what he should have done. What he wanted to do. What he still wants to do.

Shoot him in the head, the fucker. Doesn't deserve to live, even if it is spending the rest of his miserable life rotting away in a prison cell.

The incident. Like that's all it was, a little glitch in the system of your existence there, Danny. Just a tiny little bump on the path through the heaping shit pile that is your life.

She could have died. He could have found her dead. He could be burying his baby.

He'll never lose the image of finding her. It rewinds and plays through his head over and over. Can still see her sitting there, duct-taped to that chair. Tiny. Scared to death and surrounded by all that dark. Alone. Crying. Crying for him.

Oh, yeah. He should have fucking killed him.

**

Unbelievable. "You have to ask? How the hell do you think it makes me feel? Rachel just took her. Away. For a fucking month. To England."

"Does that surprise you?"

"Yes. No." He runs fingers through his hair and slumps down a bit more on the couch. "No, no. No, it doesn't. But--it pisses me off. Royally. I mean, she's my daughter, too. She's my baby, too, and now she’s gone. For a month."

"Yes, but you had to have given your consent. You had to have been there when Grace got her passport. I know both parents are required to give permission.”

Sighs. “Yeah. I did. I mean, Grace wanted to go and, what? Like I could say no to her going to England. Just—Rachel didn’t even ask me. Just told Grace they were going. Grace was so excited. How could I have said no? I couldn’t say anything.”

“Do you think this vacation actually might be of benefit to Grace?"

He sits back. This is tiring. As much as he's always loved words and using them, these required visits with the psychiatrist are draining. He feels like he's been running a race and somebody keeps extending the finish line a little further and further each day. He'll never get there.

"Yeah. Sure. Grace needs to get away. She's just a little girl, she -- the psychiatrist she's been going to told us this would be a help to her. I get that, it's just. It's just that Rachel, she never even asked." He looks at her then, sits forward, his hands rubbing his eyes. He's so tired. "She blames me for all of this, y' know."

"Do you think you're to blame?"

He just laughs.

"You know we don't have control over other people's actions, Danny. You had no control over your former partner's actions and what he did. What do you think about your ex-wife putting all the blame on your shoulders?"

He sighs, leans his head against the couch's back and stares at the ceiling. "I think--sometimes, I think she's right."

**

He tries not to think about any of it. Tries not to rehash his outpouring during his sessions. Tries to leave it there. Tries not to dwell.

He's tired, though. And it's hard to not feel.

Trudging though sludge to make it through the day-to-day, that's what it feels like he's been doing. Doesn't even have work--Steve--any of them to distract him. Occupy his mind.

That's another thing. He can't even seem to muster up the energy to be with Steve, which is frustrating since they've worked hard to come together to this point after months of back and forth uncertainty. After his stupidity in thinking he and Rachel could start over and be together and actually be happy.

He hasn't even explained to Steve that the message he'd left Rachel, the message that Peterson fixated on, was months old. Months. He'd left it the night she'd told him the baby wasn't his.

Steve had been in jail, his team was gone, and he was feeling nothing but despair. Loneliness. Wanting it all, wanting anything to grab on to. Steve. His daughter. A baby. His family -- feeling overwhelming desperation for something he'd had that he hadn't truly accepted was lost to him.

And Steve hasn't even asked about them, his words to Rachel.

God, the shit they've both been through these past few months.

He feels worn out. Old. Even the stop to pick up juice, bread and coffee from the store is about all Danny can manage, and he's tiredly juggling his keys and the bags when the sound of a young girl's voice catches his attention.

It takes but a second to register that the high-pitched tone is one of distress, and it sets something undone in his core. He throws the bag of groceries into the back seat of the Camaro, slamming the door shut and running to follow the raised voices.

There's crying now.

Oh, Christ.

On the other side of a parked truck, he finds a man half-pulling, half-pushing a young girl--seven? eight? Not quite Grace's age--into the side door of a mini-van.

She's shaking her head and just wailing.

"Swear to God, Lea, I've had enough today. I told you no and I mean it, so just get in the damn car."

The sound of flesh hitting flesh, the sight of the man swatting at her rear end and literally shoving her into the van--

Danny's blood is boiling, heat skyrocketing through his brain.

All he sees is rage.

He grabs the guy, turns him and decks him in one hit.

The guy's on the ground trying to turn over and yelling, "What the fuck?"

Danny's head's going to explode as he bends to haul the fucker to his feet. "You sonofabitch--"

"No! Daddy! Daddy!"

The screaming of a car-horn fills his head, a screaming child--

A screaming woman off to his left somewhere--

Voices. Yelling. Screaming. Screaming, shouting and angry.

Hands are biting at his shoulders, heaving him away, an arm wraps his throat, yanking him, choking him and he's pulled up and then slammed down again. Gravel cuts sharply into his face. His arms are wrenched up high behind him.

A foot plants itself between his shoulder blades; he can't shake it off. Can't move.

It all takes less than two minutes.

**

"What, so you're my psychiatrist now?" He doesn't need this right now. Bad enough he's going to have to talk to her about it; he doesn't need Steve trying ninja therapy.

"Ninja therapy. What does that even mean, Danny?"

He waves Steve off. Sits there for a minute, then lets his head fall into his hands. He's still achy. Face is tender. Shoulders hurt. "Yeah. Okay. Fine. Yes. You're right. I am grateful."

Steve's not exactly glaring, but close. "You should be. You should be thanking your lucky stars that your ass isn't sitting in a jail cell right now."

"I know."

"No, Danny. I don't think you do. You assaulted the guy. Out of the blue."

Okay, no. "Wait a second. Not assault. I didn't do that--it wasn't like that. He was--it's not like there wasn't a reason. She was crying, that little girl. That child. I was--I wasn't--I couldn't let her be hurt and do nothing. I couldn't."

Now Steve comes to sit next to him and he really wishes he wouldn't. Doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes so up close and personal. Wants to forget all that's happened and just--just go to sleep.

Steve's hand lands on his thigh. Squeezing. "I know. I know what you were thinking, why you reacted that way when you thought she was in trouble." He's trying to avoid looking directly as Steve. "But she wasn't. Danny, you can't just go off after every--" Steve's words trail off and Danny can sense his frustration.

Hell, he feels it himself.

"I know, Steve. I'm--I'll talk to my therapist--my doctor, okay? Believe me, she'll be all over this come Monday. She’ll love it."

"You're lucky, Danny. Lucky the security guard recognized who you were from the news. Lucky they empathized and let it go. Let you go. That guy could have pressed charges and then we'd be talking to each other through a glass partition."

There's a pit in Danny's stomach. That was also the night Rachel lowered the boom about the baby. "Wouldn't be the first time, right?"

Hands wrap around his neck and gently pull him in. Feels the warmth of Steve pressed all along his side. Feels good.

Steve kisses him, and Danny lets his mind clear of all but the heat of pleasure slowly coiling in his belly. Lets Steve pull him to his feet and guide him up the stairs toward Steve's bedroom.

Which is perfect.

He just wants to forget about life for a while, and what better way than to give up the wheel and let Steve drive.

 

**

The sheets ruffle and Danny hears and feels Steve moving around. Must be the crack of dawn then. Peers out the window at the not even barely lightened sky. The ass crack of dawn, more like.

"Too early to swim, you complete lunatic," he mumbles into the pillow, sleepy and warm and rolling onto his stomach to let himself drift back to sleep.

There's warmth on his back then, the heavy weight of Steve shifting over him, the man's voice a whispered breath in his ear.

"You could convince me to stay," Steve says. "Get back into bed. Stay here."

He rolls, Steve letting up enough for him to be able to turn over onto his back.

Lips press his forehead, and he cracks an eye open just enough to see Steve's way too bright and shiny face filling the entirety of his vision.

He groans. It’s too early for this.

Steve shifts, rolling to his side while his hands thread lightly through the hair on Danny's chest.

"You okay, D?"

Danny swallows. Nods. Tries not to think of Rick calling him that as well. His voice is sand-rough with sleep. "Yeah, I'm good. Be better if I were still asleep, but there's no having that with you around, is there?"

Steve smiles, but his eyes are a little sad, Danny thinks. Watches them when Steve says, "You were dreaming last night. This morning."

Oh. "Again?" He didn't remember this one. Was hoping the nightmares were lessening. Had assured his psychiatrist they pretty much were.

A nod. "Yeah, but I got you to quiet down pretty quickly," Steve tells him, still petting his chest, and Danny sucks in a breath when those fingers drift lower.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I get it, Danny. It's going to take time." Steve has one hand working over his dick now, and Danny closes his eyes. Steve's other hand slides its way under his balls, fingers lightly tracing up and down the cleft there. Tickling. "You sore?"

Danny cracks his eye open. "From you late last night, you mean? Or from the security guard throwing me to the ground like a sack of potatoes earlier?"

"Last night," Steve says, nuzzling his nose in Danny's shoulder. "Me."

He is, but it's a good sore, and he tells as much to Steve.

Steve, who's now tonguing and nipping at a nipple while also palming Danny's cock firmly enough that it's getting hard to concentrate, and Danny loves it. Needs it. Lets his mind narrow down to complete sensation, focusing on the feel of Steve's firm but soft tongue. Sharp little bites of teeth that hurt for a millisecond while also sending tiny spirals of heat throughout his groin. Revels in the squeeze of pleasure coming from those large hands that are working his dick toward what is sure to be a spectacular release.

He's filled with a bright heat, consuming him. Hears himself moaning. Hears himself panting. Hears Steve talking.

What?

"Just relax. Relax, Danny. You do know she's going to come out of this just fine--you do know that. Right?"

Wait. What? The hands of this man are driving him crazy, and it's all Danny can do to wrestle his mind back to the here and now. "Who? What? What did you say?"

"Grace. You were dreaming about her, but you have to know she's got you and Rachel. Me. Stan, even. Chin. Kono. All of us. She's going to be okay."

Seriously? He props himself up on his elbows. "Really? You're going to try and talk to me about this right now?"

"Well, I just want you to know--"

"No. Steve. First, please don't say my baby's name when you're busy doing, y' know, what it is you're doing. What we're doing. Here. Now." Gives him a searing look, because sometimes he thinks 'what the hell' is just about the most perfect all-around response to anything 'Steve.' Sits up because, "Jesus. Okay. Stop, just-stop. I can't even."

Steve shakes his head. "Hey, sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean anything, just--you don't talk about it, and I just--I just want to make sure you know that she's--that you're both--that you're in good hands and not to--"

"And not to what?"

"And nothing."

Yeah, right. "What's the nothing, Steven?"

"It is nothing, just--Denning, he's--" Steve has that look, like he needs to do something. Fix something, only Danny knows there's nothing for him to fix.

"What? He's what? This about you, or me?"

Sighing then, and Steve drops his head. "You. Okay? He's not happy that you--he just wants to make sure you're getting help. That you're seeing the psychiatrist. He's, ah, worried after what just happened."

"My going after that dad in the parking lot, you mean."

"Yeah."

He knows Steve means well. Knows he shouldn't be feeling the anger that's creeping up his back, but he can't help it. Relaxation techniques. Fuck 'em.

"Well, Steven, you can report back that I'm fine. I'm doing what I'm required to do to get back to work, and everything's just fine. Just fucking fine." He slips away, out of bed and heading toward the bathroom, feeling pissed at everything and everyone. Mostly at himself.

"Danny?"

"Just--go for your swim, Steve," he replies. And shuts the door.

**

Hell, no. Danny really doesn't want to talk about Rachel anymore. Or Stan. Didn’t they cover all of this in the last session?

"Stan--Stan's fine. I mean, no, I don't want my daughter to have to have a stepfather, but since I have no control over that. Stan's, well. He's not a bad choice, I suppose. Even given the dumb-ass things he's done." He's not going to offer up any of the specifics there, and really, when all is said and done, the man did let him shoot him, after all.

"Tell me again what Stan said to you."

"What he said to me--when, after? What, that he didn't blame me? That he knew I wasn't ultimately responsible for shooting him, for any of it? God, I've said this like ten times already. Why do you keep needing to hear it?"

She's smiling at him, writing something down. Again. "I don't, Danny. You do."

**

The few dishes he's now amassed fit inside the cabinets in his new kitchen with room to spare, and he laughs at the look on Kono's face when he shows her.

"Classy, not so much, Danny. But at least it's a step up from paper and plastic," she says, inspecting the blue and white melamine plate in her hand. Taps her fingers against it. "Uh, sort of."

"Hey. Not like I'm throwing dinner parties or anything. It works just fine for me and Grace."

Kono smiles. "And Steve."

"Off-limits, you."

She takes a long pull from the beer bottle in her hand, looking at him fairly intently. "You know we know, though, right? I mean, it's not like you two hide it all that well." She smiles again, and he wonders how it's possible he's never fallen madly in love with her. "I'm just sayin'."

Voices come toward them from the other room. "Well, don't," he tells her again with a smile. "Let it go."

She's studying him, then trails one hand down his arm, squeezing and holding onto his hand. "Okay, Danny. I'll let it go." That grin again. "For now."

He gives her an exaggerated eye roll, and she laughs outright at him when she sees it.

Her hand squeezing his stops him. "You are okay, though, right?"

"Yeah, I am. I'm good, Kono. I am."

Which makes her face shine. She's beautiful, and yeah. In a way, maybe he is truly in love with her. Kind of hard not to be.

"That's good, brah," she's saying, and they head into the living room to join Steve and Chin. His eyes catch Steve’s--

That right there, that look on that face--enough to make him weak in the knees.

"How you holding up, Danny?" Chin asks.

Kono's touching him again, holding onto his arm. "We miss you so much."

He misses them, too, but isn't about to admit that. Not out loud, anyway. "No, you miss my reining in the Caped Crusader over here, you mean."

"Hey!" Steve shoots him a look in protest, then grins. "That is so not true. I wouldn't be caught dead in a cape."

**

"Hey, Monkey!"

"Hi, Danno. Guess what?"

Funny, during the entire ten-minute conversation he has with Grace, he can't think of a thing she’s told him. Just lets the sound of her voice wash over him, melt through him. How happy and relaxed she seems as she goes on about cousins and accents, double-decker buses and having to look the right way to cross a street, only how it's really the wrong way because it's just all backwards.

Feels the tightness in his shoulders lessen a bit as he realizes she really is doing well. Sounds like her happy self.

"She is, you know," Rachel's telling him as she gets back on the phone. "Happy. She's doing just fine. I think--yes, this was most definitely the sort of holiday away she needed, even if she is going to have schoolwork to catch up on."

"Yeah," he says, agreeing.

"And you, Danny? How are you managing?"

Which surprises him, that she's even asking him considering her last words to him. "Good. I'm--good."

A long pause then, and he could swear her tone holds a bit less of an edge. Softer, even. "That's—good. Really. I'm--"

"How's Stan doing?"

"Oh, he's okay. Better. Still a bit sore, but you know Stan. Up and working on the computer pretty much the moment we arrived. He's going to be fine, Danny. He meant what he said, you know, that he doesn't even—that he doesn't blame you. Not at all."

Which, okay. "Okay, well, thanks. Tell him that I--just--tell him, thanks." And he can't even say it, the thanks he really does owe Stan. Doesn't want to think on that now.

She pauses again. He wonders when it got to be so truly hard for them to talk to one another. Wonders at all they've been through together.

"Okay, Daniel. I will. I'll tell him." Silence for a moment, then: "And Danny. I'm sorry, too. I don't--what I said before. I know none of this was truly your fault."

Yeah. "Okay, well. Thank you," he tells her. "Give Gracie a hug and kiss from me, okay? Tell her that—tell her Danno loves her."

"I will, Danny. Of course, I will."

This is going nowhere today. He's not in the mood, has a wicked headache, and sits slumped on his psychiatrist's couch, half-listening while playing with a loose thread on his pants.

Wonders when he started thinking of her as his.

"Don't feel much like talking today?"

"Not much, nope." Just wants to go home.

Draw the blinds.

"Are you sleeping okay?"

He nods.

"Nightmares?"

"Some," he answers. "Getting better, though."

"Even after the court hearing yesterday? That must have been hard seeing Mr. Peterson again."

He can't even describe the fury that bubbled like hot oil in his veins. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. It was hard seeing that animal. Hard not to wrap my hands around his neck for what he did."

"Do you want to talk about that? How you felt seeing him."

"No."

She's watching him. God, he's tired of being watched. By her. By Steve.

She nods then, like she’s agreeing. As if she has any intention of not bringing it all back up for him to discuss at a later time. Knows another outpouring is in a future appointment. Just not today. He just can't.

"You and Steve doing okay?"

Nods. "Yeah. We're okay." Really, he doesn't want to get into any of this, shoots himself the minute he adds, "He wants me to talk to him about all of this, though. Especially after seeing Peterson yesterday."

"But you don't want to talk to him."

No, that's not it. "I just--I don't know. Not now. Not today. I can't." He meets her eyes. "Steve's great. He is. Was with me in the courtroom. He means well and all, cares about me. I know that. Might even--" No. Doesn't want to go down this avenue just now. Not with her. "I just don't--"

"Don't what?"

He feels exhausted, yet restless. Itchy. Like he's trapped in someone else's skin. "I don't know. Don't want to get into it all, I guess. It's tiring enough just talking to you about it."

"Okay. That's understandable. Have you tried telling him that?"

Has he? He can't think. "I don't know--don't think so."

Seeing Peterson yesterday has him on edge.

God, he misses his daughter.

His head is killing him.

Plays with the loose thread again. Wonders if he pulls, would he just unravel right along with it.

**

"Get the fuck off me, asshole!"

What the hell? Danny lets the top of the dumpster fall, heads toward the man and woman who are clearly engaged in some altercation in the parking lot of his apartment.

The man's got a firm grip on her arm. It's getting dark outside, harder to see as dusk settles around them, but Danny can't quite miss the dark red handprints on both her upper arms. The eye that looks like it's already swelling.

She's yanking to free herself, but the man's bigger and not letting go. Clearly angry.

"Hey," Danny yells to him, which gains both their attention. He glares at the man. "You want to back off there, pal?" Then nods toward the woman. "You okay, miss?"

She pulls her arm free, turning back to smack the man hard in the side of the head. The guy raises his hand, and it's not difficult to figure what's coming. Danny's there in a second, getting a hold of the guy's wrist and arm and twisting up hard. McGarrett's not the only one who has moves.

"Fuck," the man cries out as Danny drops him to the ground, kneeing him in the back to keep him there. Wishes he had his ID. Handcuffs.

"What the fuck?" the guy is yelling at him, bucking underneath him. "Get the hell off me, you little prick--"

"Shut up," Danny tells him as he glances at the woman to make sure she's okay. She’s standing behind him and he starts to explain, "It's okay. I'm with Five-0, the pol--" The first blow to the side of his head has him reeling, the second has him rolling away at the same time the guy below him pushes up to his feet.

The kick to his knee sends him sprawling to the ground. The kick to his side keeps him there.

Gravel in his face. Again.

Hurts like hell.

It's a slow roll to turn over. His head is spinning, he feels dizzy. Nauseous. Feels like complete shit.

The woman is screeching at him as she tosses away the broken two-by-four she hit him with, and then she and the man walk away, arm in arm, kicking gravel at him.

"Mind your own damn business, motherfucker."

**

Too much. Yeah, definitely too much. He knows he's had too much to drink, doesn't relish the idea of the walk home.

Limp home.

Wonders what time it is--how long he's been sitting here. According to the numbness of his ass, a long while. Long, long while. And yet, not nearly long enough.

Fuck Rick Peterson. Hopes the man rots in jail. Hopes he gets himself shanked, actually, but if he said that to his psychiatrist he'd be extending his required therapy time for months, he's sure.

Good ol' anger issues.

Can only hope that neither Steve nor Denning get word of the shit that happened this evening.

Can't believe the woman he was trying to help was the one to hit him.

Maybe he'll have one more before he hits the road. Signals the bartender, who's actually pointing back at him from across the bar and he stares at the guy, blinking to clear his somewhat blurrier-than-it-should-be-after-just-a-few-beers --oh, Lord let this not actually be a concussion-- vision.

Blinks again because now the guy--the bartender--has completely turned his back on him. He thinks about chucking the empty bottle behind the bar to get his attention, even holds it up--

And it's pulled from his hands. What the hell?

He turns to lash out because, goddamnit, he's pretty well fucking done with being fucked with by anyone. Reels some on the barstool as he turns, catches himself with a hand braced on the bar, a hand braced on McGarrett.

Steve. Here. Seriously?

"Danny. God." Steve's hands are touching him, palming his face and turning it from side to side, angling so he can get a better look.

Pulls his face away from Steve's hold. "You come here for me?" he asks, still not sure how it is Steve is even here. "How the hell'd you know where I was?"

Steve's looking at him with all kinds of--concern, maybe? He's not sure, exactly. Steve's a little hard to read. Or maybe his eyes are a just a little blurrier than usual. No, definitely concern and--what's that look? Annoyance? Anger? Really?

Steve then reaches out to trace a light path over the place on his face where he was hit first, and given how tender it is, Danny figures there must be sort of mark evident. "Seriously, Steve," he says, trying to brush off Steve's hands. "What are you doing here?"

"Eddie called."

"Who?"

Steve nods to the bartender, who is now watching the both of them. "Eddie."

Steve throws the guy a half-wave. Lord, Danny's tired of people looking at him.

He pushes a finger into Steve's chest. "You know the bartender?"

"No." Steve's pulling him off the stool, pulling him to his feet. Supporting him somewhat. Not totally. He can walk, he can, he just--

"Wait," Danny instructs, looking around. "Where's my--" He finds the cane propped against the bar and reaches down for it, almost taking a header and would have if not for Steve's supportive hold around his waist.

"Really, Danny? Your knee, too? What the hell?"

Hands then, helping him maneuver the less than steady path out to Steve's truck. Helping shove him up into the seat. Helping buckle the seatbelt when the thing just refuses to cooperate under his own thick fingers.

"You want to tell me what the hell happened to you, Danny?"

God, he so doesn't want to talk about this. Waves his hand to indicate such, mumbling, "Not particularly."

Which Steve is clearly not having any of--

"Seriously, Danny." Steve's glancing at him while driving. "You're a mess."

"I'm--hey, you just missed my turn. Remember, new apartment? Back there, you need to turn back--" Now Steve's staring straight ahead, continuing on, and Danny knows he's not going to turn. Knows he’s headed to Steve’s. Knows he needs to talk to Steve at some point, just—not now. Slumps a bit more in the seat and lets loose a resigned sigh. His head hurts. His body hurts. "How'd you even know where to find me?"

"Eddie recognized you from--you know."

Yeah, he knew. Everyone knew. That he let his daughter be kidnapped by a crazy former partner. That he shot his ex-wife's husband.

"Eddie?" Fuck his life that someone named Eddie knew where he was.

Steve's poking him again, and he opens his eyes to glare at him.

"Eddie, the bartender? Where you just were--remember? Jesus, Danny. Try and stay with me here."

"Why are you staring at me? Stop staring. Watch the road."

Watches Steve pinch the bridge of his nose. Okay, so now he's the cause of that little habit Steve does when he's annoyed as hell and everything's falling to shit. Well, newsflash, McGarrett: he already knows his life's gone to shit.

"He called HPD, Danny."

"Who did?"

"Eddie, the bartender. For fuck's sake--are you this dense from too much to drink or do you have a head injury?"

His eyes fall closed and he'd love to just slip away in sleep, but Steve's not shutting up. Not letting up on the poking either, the fucker.

"Eddie called HPD, did you hear me? Recognized you from the news. Knew you were part of Five-0 and was concerned. About you. Because you were putting ‘em down like water, he said, and getting a bit—uh, loud. Called HPD to let them know you were there."

Okay. Okay. So now all of HPD knows he's been drinking. So the fuck what?

Steve sounds angry when he says, "Really? So the fuck what?"

"You heard me say that? I thought I just thought that."

"Shut up, Danny. Just--shut up and listen." And oh, yeah, Steve is definitely angry. "Apparently you were becoming belligerent at the bar.”

“No, you just said loud before.”

“Well, I meant loud and belligerent—like that’s a surprise.” Steve rubs a hand over his head.

“Headache?”

Steve ignores him. “Eddie was worried you might get into a fight given how loud and belligerent you were becoming. Knew who you were, knew you were with Five-0, so he called HPD. HPD then called Denning--as in Governor Denning--who then called me. Called me to go retrieve my drunk-ass partner from Eddie's bar and take him home before he got himself into any trouble. Any more trouble."

"Oh."

"Yeah. And then told me to, and I quote the governor verbatim: 'Drag Williams out of the bar, put him on the tightest leash you can find, and don't let him off until he's finished getting his head back together.'"

All Danny can think is, really? This is what his life has come to?

"So I'm taking you home to my place. Danny?"

“Yeah.”

“You hear me?”

He leans his head against the window, closes his eyes and sighs. There isn't a piece of him that doesn't hurt, throb or ache. The beer isn’t sitting all too nicely in his stomach, either. "I heard you."

"Okay."

"Okay. Yeah, okay."

"Okay, then." Steve says softly, and that hand is back on Danny's thigh. Softly squeezing. "Okay."

**

He wakes to hands slowly caressing him, petting and sweeping lightly over his skin. Up his back, across his shoulders, down his pecs and lightly tickling over his nipples. Tracing small circles there.

"Wha-?"

"Shh," Steve's whispering into his ear, lips pressed so close Danny can feel the moist warmth of each breathy word. "Easy. You're okay."

He nods, mostly asleep. Sighs with the touches that gentle him.

Shifts a bit as Steve stretches out flush behind him, pulling him back, skin now adhering to skin like they're wearing each other. Steve swings his leg over Danny's, trapping it while reaching across hips to wrap his hand around Danny's half hard dick. Lips slide up over the shell of his ear, teeth tracing the same path on the way down.

Danny moans, can't help it. Tries to stretch, to move--

"I've got you, Danny. You're okay."

He guesses he was dreaming, maybe, and feels a lingering tightness in his chest. Figures that's why he's waking to Steve draped all over and around him, but he doesn't remember any of it. Doesn't say anything except to let a low moan slip free as Steve tightens and quickens the hold he has on his cock.

Mumbles, "Steve," a few times, keeping his eyes closed as he's aroused and yet still half asleep. Like he can't quite shake the vestiges of sleep. As though this is still all part of a dream--a different dream. A porn dream.

"Shh, Danny. Relax. Just let me do this."

Steve's holding him tightly, firmly, trapping him with his arms and legs, his back to Steve’s chest so that he has little room to move.

Not that he really wants to as he feels the building pleasure of arousal, arches as best he can along with the rising heat in his groin, feels nothing but his impending orgasm which breaks him wide open when it comes, when he comes.

Lets loose a deep, guttural groan, biting his lip and then falling bonelessly into the pillow.

Steve's shifted, smiling down at him, he can just make out the shine of his eyes in the dark of the room as he leans over him. Kisses his neck, his shoulder.

"Sleep, Danny."

He does.

**

Morning arrives too early.

Too bright. Too quiet and yet too loud. He already has a headache.

There's a note on the pillow instead of Steve's head. There are also two Advil. A glass of water is leaving a wet ring on the nightstand.

Danny blinks a few times at the note. Steve's gone into work. Will call later.

Take the meds. Drink all of the water.

Coffee's ready to go, just push the button.

No pancakes, sorry, but there's oatmeal and fresh pineapple juice. Expand your horizons.

See you tonight.

He pulls the pillow over his face with a groan and tries to fall back to sleep.

**

All in all, showering at Steve's is heaven.

There's an amazing hot water system (although the one in his new place isn't too shabby, either, thankfully)--

There's Steve's shampoo (with its Steve-smell which just permeates the entire shower and okay, yeah, he'll admit to washing his hair an extra time just to wallow in the scent) -- which makes him jack off, of course, which makes him feel better, so yeah. All in all. He can deal.

He slicks back his hair best he can with no gel, uses the spare toothbrush that technically could be called his (really, who would use a used toothbrush anyway), gives a half a micro-second thought about shaving, and then borrows a t-shirt of Steve's before heading back to his place.

There are boxes still needing to be unpacked, after all, and since the cable's finally been installed, he can now do all that while watching his new large-screen TV. All day, even, because what the fuck else does he have to do?

The cab arrives late, and then it's forever for him to maneuver up the stairs to his new apartment, even with the cane--and, Jesus, what is he, eighty? He feels so out of breath and shaky by the time he gets in the door that he stands there panting and actually contemplating a nap. Already.

There's some fairly spectacular bruising starting to show up on the side of his face and the area around his knee. Figures she'd hit the one that already gives him trouble and he's glad Steve didn't get too good a look at him this morning because if he had he'd most likely have hustled him off to the hospital, which just--no.

He looks like hell. Feels the same, but he's okay. Will be okay. There’s always more Advil.

Life goes on.

**

Night falls and his little deck with its chair looks inviting after a pretty full day of getting his apartment put together (and okay, he did take the time for a quick nap). He has most of the things he's amassed finally unpacked and the boxes out by the dumpster for recycle.

The place looks good--as neat as he's ever kept an apartment, for now, and the new sofa fits nicely in front of his TV.

He's finally got a bed that's not only big and roomy, it's, well, a bed -- a far cry from that miserable pull out sofabed that was leaving a permanent dig in his back. He's got new sheets, a new duvet and hell, a quarter could be bounced off that bed. Steve would never believe it.

So yeah. Time to relax. The beer tastes good, is taking the edge off the ache in his face, his knee. His pride.

He's turned off the lamps in his apartment, sits out under what few stars he can see given the lights around the place. Thinks that if the neighbors in the little house his deck looks upon would shut off their lights, he'd have a better chance to stargaze.

Wishes Steve was sitting with him. And on that thought, his cell buzzes. McGarrett. Timing and all.

"Hey," he says, can hear his smile stretch all over that word because he's feeling loose-limbed and easy and yeah, it's Steve.

"Hey back," Steve replies. "Took a break. Thought I'd see what you're up to."

"Oh, I don’t know. Think about 5'7" or 5'8."

"Yeah. In your dreams, maybe." Which just makes him laugh. It feels so good to hear Steve's voice, even if it is at the expense of his five-foot-five-ness. Feels good to smile.

They talk for a while, Steve going on about meetings with politicians and military types, Denning, and Danny finds himself uh-huh-ing and nodding and really only half hearing what Steve is saying as he's too busy just drifting along on the sound of Steve's voice and staring out into the Hawaiian night. There's a breeze, even.

"So then I requisitioned a full iron cannon, what do you think?"

"Sounds good, babe. You, wait--you what? What did you say?"

"Ah, just proving a point. You're not listening to a word I'm saying, Danny."

"Oh, I beg to differ -- you're going on about some craziness as usual, and I'm listening, I am, as I sit here enjoying a beer on my lanai, happy I'm not there with you. So you know, cheers." He toasts Steve, and downs half the beer, happy to be finally feeling a little loose--happy to be enjoying a relatively cool evening while sitting under the cover of stars. And lights. Mostly lights. 

His neighbors in the little house are arguing, their place is lit up like a beacon in the night. He can hear them through the open window. See them pointing fingers at one another's faces. Has a front row seat and doesn't that just remind him of the last years of his marriage to Rachel.

Great.

"So, how are you feeling? You hurting any worse?"

"No, ah, better. Took some more Advil, which, hey, pairs nicely with Longboards, it turns out, so lucky for me I've got plenty, right?"

He's watching the couple really go at one another, feels pretty much like an intruder but can't look away. She's flat out screaming at him now.

"You sound better, but maybe it's the beer talking. Yeah, probably the beer, I'm thinking."

The guy's yelling back at her, Danny stands up as he sees the man give her a hard shove.

"Well, beer does make me a little loose which, Steven, if you're planning on coming over here later may play out in your fav--oh!"

She's got something in her hand, hits the man in the head. He thinks she hit him in the head--what is that? A fireplace poker?

"Danny?"

"Are there, do people have fireplaces in Hawaii?"

"What?"

She's taken another swing, the man's dropped down below the window where Danny can't see. He's rising to his toes, not that it's giving him any better view, just as she's reared back to swing the thing again.

"Oh God, Steve--"

"Danny? What are you--what's going on?"

She's swinging again and again, over and over and then turns and goes for the blinds. Looks right at him--Danny swears she's looking right at him before the blinds fall closed.

"Shit, Steve--I think I just saw a woman kill a guy--"

"What?"

"I gotta -- what's that street? Call HPD--the street behind my place, my new place, what's the name? Shit, I can't think--"

"What's going on, Danny? Danny! What the hell?"

He can hear Steve's desperation, feels it himself and is already tearing out his door--gun, he has no gun on suspension--and flying down the stairs by way of just leaping to the landings.

Feels a sharp twinge of pain deep in his knee but runs it off while yelling to Steve over the phone. "Pahu street--it's Pahu street. Steve, call HPD--it's, it's hold on…it's uh, wait, I'm almost there--932 Pahu--"

"Danny, what the--what are you doing?"

He doesn’t have time for this, really he doesn't. Is whispering now as he's edging closer to the house; he's going to have to hang up soon. "They were arguing, my neighbors. I saw her hit him, Steve. She may have killed him. I'm checking it out, that's all. Okay? I'll be careful--just get HPD here now! And an ambulance--"

He shuts off the phone, shoving it into his pocket and moving down the side of the house. The lights are mostly off now so the house is pretty dark which offers just enough shadow for him to creep down the side toward the back.

It's mostly quiet; a few noises sound around the neighborhood, faint music, voices, cars, dogs barking, but nothing from the house. He wonders if she took off.

The back door's ahead, he knows the guy should be lying near it given the layout as he could see through the window. Hopes he's not dead, but after what he witnessed, Danny's sure if the guy is still alive that he's going to be needing some major help to stay that way.

He can't just leave him to bleed to death.

With one hand on the door, he tries the knob. Open. Takes a deep breath and mentally crosses himself even though he hasn't stepped foot in a church for any sort of service since his wedding and Grace's christening. At this point he'll take all the help he can. So yeah, God. HPD.

Steve would be better.

Pushes the door and it swings into the room. "Police. Five-0," he calls out, keeping to the side before taking a tentative step inside, his eyes trying to pierce the dark as he slowly moves into the house, back to the door.

There's a dark shape across the room, a body--

Something hits him low below his knee--his bad knee--and he goes down with a grunt and sharp whoosh of breath--

She's there, standing over him, lead pipe in hand and hauling back as if to hit him again.

"Police, put it down," he yells, more like pants, can't catch enough breath--"Put down the weapon!" A command this time, scrabbles to the side and strikes his foot out to hit her sideways in the knee, knock her off her feet before she can hit him again.

Tries to get up but his leg is weak and vibrating almost, shit, killing him with nerve endings on fire, and he goes back down on his good knee yet still manages enough leverage to keep her on the ground.

She's mostly unresisting, says nothing as she stares at up him with glazed-over eyes, and he easily wrests the pipe from her hands and flips her face down.

Somewhere nearby, sirens wail in the night.

He takes a shuddering breath, glances to the hallway and finds the sightless eyes of a man whose head is split open to reveal crushed bone.

Jesus.

**

"She could have walked away."

"But she didn't," he tells her.

Okay, enough already. He's tired of talking about himself. His marriage. Tired of talking about Peterson. Really tired of talking about the murder. Tired of talking period.

"But you did."

He just stares at her. She says this is the last session he needs to have with her; says she's okayed him going back to work. That he's put back together enough to be given her stamp of approval. Yeah, he's not a nutcase, apparently. Even after all this time working with Steve.

Who knew?

"I did what?"

She smiles. He's glad she's somehow lost that artificial smile and brought out the genuine article. "Walked away."

"What?"

"You don't see the parallel?"

He shifts, shakes his head and feels--feels sad, still, for the poor guy who got his head done in by his wife. "No. Rachel and I never fought to the point of violence."

"Because--"

"Because I'm not that--what, are you comparing my marriage to what happened next door to me?"

"Actually, no. You were."

"Okay. I'm lost." He hates the thought that she even remotely wants to compare his albeit rocky end to a marriage with the out and out violence of a few weeks ago. Things never got to that point.

"Well, look at it this way. You were faced with the utmost stress: a death threat to your child. What did you do?"

There's a sardonic laugh in their somewhere; he can feel it rising. "What, you don't have this all written down in your notes that you're asking me again? What have you been doing all these weeks, doodling?"

"Just answer the question, please."

"I shot my ex-wife's husband."

"Where."

He's getting annoyed now. It's like they're back to square one. "In the shoulder."

"Because--"

"Because I couldn't kill an innocent man."

"Exactly. And then?"

They've been over and over this. "Then I shot my former training officer. My former partner."

"Where?"

Sighs. "In the leg."

"But not in the head."

"No."

"You told me you'd wanted to shoot him in the head."

"Well, yeah--"

"But you didn't. You didn't kill him."

"I--I had to find Grace."

She's smiling again, paging through her notes. "You said you were almost blind with rage when you shot Peterson. That all you could see was red. Yeah, here, your words: 'I saw him and wanted to kill him. I was going to kill him, it was like I blocked everything and only saw him.'.

"I know what I said. You wrote down what I said. We've been over this. Why are you reading back to me what I said?"

"You were furious."

"Yeah, more than furious."

"You only had one thought--killing him. Peterson."

"Yes. I wanted to kill him. I was going to kill him."

"Yes, and with that all-consuming rage where you said you blocked out everything around you for those seconds, where all you saw was Peterson, the man who told you he could kill Grace--where you only wanted to shoot him dead. You shot him in the leg."

"Yes."

"And walked away."

**

He's tired, but it's good. A good tired. A great tired, considering he's spent most of the week at his desk plowing through the drudgery of piled up paperwork.

A whole lot of paperwork.

"You ready to hit the road?"

He's already said good night to Chin and Kono, who he gave shit to about not doing her own paperwork, and who, in return, gave him yet another hug. If that keeps going on any longer, he won't be responsible for his actions. She just feels too good not to hug back. With both hands. For a long while.

Then again, Chin would kill him.

So might Steve.

Steve, who's leaning against the door and waiting for a response.

"Yes," he tells him while shuffling papers into a pile. "Yes, ready. I am very ready. Past ready."

He grabs his cane although it is getting to the point he doesn’t need to use it so much anymore. Just a faint twinge in his knee from time to time, although the doctor told him it'll be surgery if he damages it again. Somehow he looked right at Steve when he said it. Imagine that.

"You wanna stop somewhere to eat? Or you want to, I don't know, come over to my place and grill something?"

"Are you inviting me over for dinner?" He's grinning. Can't help it, and moves right up into Steve's space there by the door.

Fuck that they're at the office. Not like anyone's around; it's late and he's hungry for the feel of that six-foot wingspan wrapping around him. Right now.

Steve bends to him, and he stretches up to meet him for a long, deep, slow, toe-tingling kiss that promises so much more than dinner, and he remembers that at some point he'll have to try and talk to Steve about that message he'd left for Rachel those months back. But not now.

Steve's smiling down at him. "I take it that’s you accepting my dinner invite?"

"You. You're very perceptive."

A chuckle. "I have skills."

"Skills. You have skills."

"Skills you haven't even seen."

Which has him smiling. It feels so good to be here, Steve now wrapped around him like a blanket. "Skills. Really. Huh. Might have to test you on that statement, my friend. See about these supposed skills of yours that I haven't seen."

Steve pauses a fraction of a beat and then has them both turned around with Danny shoved up against the wall and Steve's tongue halfway down his throat.

Steve peels away looking all too smug, his hand still cupped around Danny's jaw, and Danny finds himself clearing his throat, feeling not just a little bit dizzy. "I, uh, yes, I will agree these skills might be worth further, ah, investigation."

Then they're out the door, Steve guiding him with one hand on his ass and the other pressing his shoulder, steering him down the hall and doling out directions as if Danny had any other place to be going. "To the car. Home. Now."

"Yesterday, even," he adds and then turns at the next corner to head to the elevator. To head to Steve's.

Which, he thinks, is the first right turn his life has given him in a long while.

He knows it's the perfect direction.

End.


End file.
